A book about books is like a poem about poetry:Books are knowledge, paid for, all.Readers – horses in a stall.Stallions should always run.Lest they stale become, in turn.Running waters are most clear.In some books, you disappear –lose yourself, and track of time.How I wish that one was mine…Mine, to have, to write, to read…Mine, just like a flying steed.Mine, forever, – to improve.Would I then, of me, approve?I would not, I can’t… myself.I’m but dust, swept off a shelf.Fly, can I, just ’til I’m settled,down, beside my flower, petalled.
A book about books is like a poem about poetry:Books are knowledge, paid for, all.Readers – horses in a stall.Stallions should always run.Lest they stale become, in turn.Running waters are most clear.In some books, you disappear –lose yourself, and track of time.How I wish that one was mine…Mine, to have, to write, to read…Mine, just like a flying steed.Mine, forever, – to improve.Would I then, of me, approve?I would not, I can’t… myself.I’m but dust, swept off a shelf.Fly, can I, just ’til I’m settled,down, beside my flower, petalled.
